Race
by sirocco.flow
Summary: "What are you here for, Doctor?" "Oh, come on. Victorian London, Sherlock Holmes, strange flashing lights by London Bridge and the Boat Race coming up? What would I not be here for?"
1. Chapter 1

A couple of months ago, I played a female Watson in a stage production of Sherlock Holmes: A Drama in Four Acts. Woman doctor in 1897, bit controversial, but I loved her. Then a while back I saw Doctor Who and the Boat Race on the same weekend and my mind went "OMG!" and this happened. None of the characters need further introduction - you're about to discover them for yourselves...

* * *

It was midday, and Holmes and I walked beneath a glorious blue sky back to Baker Street from the police station. We had been keeping a companionable silence, I mulling over the arrest we had just overseen and its implications, Holmes deep in his own thoughts. As we reached the door, I noticed him looking around keenly, then turning back as though not having seen what he sought.

"Have you noticed the curiously dressed gentleman who has been appearing on the other side of the street?" He asked.

"Matching striped suit, long brown coat?"

"The very same."

"Yes, I have. He was there yesterday when I left and I tried to follow him to find out where he's coming from, or going to. But I lost him."

Holmes paused with his hand on the lock and looked at me with eyes wide in startlement.

"Watson! You surprise me; your initiative is developing beautifully. Where did he lead you?"

"South, as far as the old abattoir," I said, following him in up the stairs. "He must have gone inside because he disappeared into the dead end behind Portsmouth St, and I'm sure I heard the doors scraping open. Peculiar sound, I suppose it could have been something else, but there is nothing else that could have made such a noise. So I dove into the building, but he was nowhere to be found – and believe me, I looked everywhere. So he must have found another way out, which is strange in itself."

Holmes' eyes flicked as he pictured the surrounding streets and alleys in his head, looking for possible explanations.

"And yet you say he must have opened the doors. He may have opened and closed them without going inside, to throw you off the scent."

"I suppose."

"I do not recall anything else that could have made a scraping noise – was there anything unusual you saw?"

"No. There was absolutely nothing there."

"How singular! I think I shall take a look myself later, before it gets dark."

"You have seen him. What can you deduce about him?"

"Very little indeed. He presents a most stimulating mystery."

He took his pipe from the mantlepiece and lit it pensively. I dropped into the armchair opposite.

"His clothes are peculiar," he continued, "but it is his behaviour that puzzles me."

"Puzzles, you? Good Lord Holmes, this is remarkable indeed."

A smile played across his features behind the puffs of smoke.

"It is. He has come to Baker Street often enough for me to be sure that this residence, its occupants, or both are of specific interest to him. Yet he is no trained spy, though he has some little experience, and he travels daily outside of London. What do you make of that?"

I did not need to ask him to explain these observations; I trusted implicitly that they were correct.

"He is in the employ of a third party, at least for the moment?" I suggested.

"No, I think not."

"Well, I expect you know exactly what I think."

"I fancy I do," he sighed. "You think there is foul play afoot surrounding the boat race – not a ruse or misdirection as it was last time we dealt with rowers, but genuine foul play. Anyone wanting to get to the bottom of it could come to me for assistance and I would be able to solve the matter, which means that, as usual, I am a danger to anyone with anything to hide. You think the perpetrators have it in mind to silence me before I have had a chance to bring their unsavoury dealings to light."

My response was a single nod. Even I was aware that my concern was evident, and had been for some time. There had been hints of suspicious activity emanating from the Oxford crew, who had had one of their finest members murdered before the annual race several years ago. It was the first case Holmes and I solved together, and Holmes' name was not unknown to the present year's teams.

He regarded me narrowly.

"Out with it, Watson. You believe our strange visitor is connected, even involved in the affair."

"I believe it would be wise to take a means of defence if you go to the abattoir today."

"I intend to, Doctor – I shall take you, if you are not otherwise engaged. Could be ready at six?"


	2. Chapter 2

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson!"

I cast about the empty living room, searching for any sign of where Holmes could have gone.

A complex experiment lay abandoned; replacing some of the lids on the most caustic chemicals I had wondered what on earth could have caused him to leap up and leave. Experiments like this were either a distraction from boredom, or a device for clearing his mind when he felt a need for fresh insight on a case. Neither the cocaine nor the morphine had been touched, so I knew he was on a case, and I knew he had none under foot at present besides our mysterious man.

Mrs Hudson hurried up the stairs.

"Dr Watson, good evening. Whatever is the matter? You look quite flushed."

I waved away the water she hastened to pour for me. "No thank you. Do you know where Mr Holmes is?"

"I'm afraid not, Doctor. He went out a short time ago, but he did not say where to."

"When, when was that?"

"Around half past five I should think. He rushed off without a word, you know his manner."

"Have there been any visitors this afternoon?"

"No, you're the first."

I passed a hand across my brow. He had wanted me to show him the exact route along which I had followed the man to the old abattoir. Perhaps the insight he wanted had struck during the chemical experiment and he had pursued the new line of inquiry immediately. Or perhaps he no longer needed me to show him the man's movements – perhaps he had caught sight of our quarry in the street and given chase. The drawer where he kept his six-shooter was empty at least, and it was of some comfort to know that he had it with him.

This was not the time to be indecisive. I took up a scrap of paper and a pencil, scribbled furiously, and handed it to Mrs Hudson.

"I need you to give this to Billy, tell him to run to the police station – mind what I say, he must run – and give it to the Detective Constable directly."

"Where are you going? Has something happened to Mr Holmes?"

"I sincerely hope not."

"But it says here-"

"They haven't done anything yet." I slammed the door, turned up my collar and crossed the street, muttering, "They'll have me to answer to if they have."

0-0-0

When I reached the turning before Portsmouth St I slowed to a jog, catching my breath and listening intently. The noise and bustle of the main thoroughfare was now far enough behind me to be able to make out noises coming from near the abattoir. Approaching the alleyway I recognised with nauseating alarm the distinct sounds of a struggle. My hand pulled out my old service revolver automatically. I was just in time.

Normally I would have paused while I was still concealed, but there was no point trying to assess the situation before proceeding. I sped straight round the corner and clapped eyes on the source of the noise, about a hundred yards down the passage.

Realising there were too many people in too tight a knot for it to be safe to shoot, I lowered my gun and shouted. It had the desired effect, which was that they turned to look for long enough for me to size them up – but in that moment I saw the one thing I had been praying not to see. Even the split-second sight of it hit my stomach like a fist. The struggle was no longer an active fight, but rather an effort to move a half-conscious person. I could only make out the shoes, but I knew exactly whose they were.

In a flare of rage I threw down the revolver and hurled myself towards them. Two broke away to meet me. In the edge of my vision I could see a third, running from further away, with one hand outstretched. There was something familiar about him, but before I had time to look, one of the two closer reached into his jacket and produced a firearm the likes of which I had never seen.

I remember the shape of it, chunky and angular, and the strange sheen of the material it was made from. I remember registering that I was about to be shot, thinking of my own gun on the floor – and then nothingness.


	3. Chapter 3

The next conscious memory I have is of waking on my side in the alley. A fogginess overhung my vision and thought. As I pushed myself up onto all fours I noticed a bizarre sensation of stiffness inside my chest cavity. Yet more bizarre was that, rolling into a sitting position with my back against the wall, I could see no sign of injury on any part of my body.

Only a short amount of time could have passed, for I looked up expecting to see the daylight melting into evening, and was greeted with the same blue sky as before. My revolver lay in the dust a few paces away. I crawled to retrieve it before attempting to stand. Once on my feet the fog seemed to lift; I took a few deep, steady breaths and felt almost myself again.

It was then I saw the apparition at the other end of the alley. It was wooden, painted a bright cobalt colour, rectangular, and big enough to fit several people inside; had it had wheels, I would have thought it belonged to a caravan. Had it been on a shopping street, I would have thought it erected by a stallholder as a semi-permanent shelter. But it sat inexplicably where it had not been the day before, with no evidence of how it had been moved there.

I tried to remember if it had been there when I arrived – I had only been watching the crowd of assailants, but how could I have missed it?

Shaking away the last cobwebs from my mind and regaining clarity of thought, I concentrated on what I had seen and yes, it had been there. In fact, that third man running towards me had been between it and the little crowd. Thinking of him, I realised why he looked familiar. He was the man I had chased there, the man I had seen several times from a distance in the dark but never in the light: our mysterious man. So it was true, then. He was involved.

As if to illustrate my thoughts, no sooner had I pictured him than I heard hurried footsteps in the abattoir.

I flattened myself against the wall, gun cocked. This might be my best chance to learn what had become of Holmes. As the man reached the door I stepped out in front of him, blocking his way and aiming at his head.

"Where is he?" I demanded.

He had one of those firearms in his hand, but didn't point it at me. He just froze where he was, coat-tails flapping, and said:

"Hello."

"Where is he?" I repeated.

"Where's who?"

"Don't." I advanced and he recoiled a couple of steps. "Don't even bother trying that with me."

"OK, OK, could we have this conversation without the gun?"

"What conversation? You're going to tell me where he is, that's it." I put my left hand as a support under the revolver for steadier aim.

"Well, firstly-" He threw down his weapon. "I'm now unarmed so you should really put that down. Secondly, I don't know where he is so I can't tell you, and thirdly..." He widened his eyes imploringly. "I was hoping for a chat."

I eyed the gun he had cast onto the floor, and then the outline of his clothes. There was something small in his inside top coat pocket, about the size and shape of a cigar, but I couldn't see anything immediately dangerous concealed. My revolver was still an unfair advantage, so with extreme reluctance, I lowered it.

"A chat? That's a shame, because firstly I don't have time, secondly I don't believe you, and thirdly this is not leaving my hand until I know he's safe."

"Just to check, the 'he' we're talking about is Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?"

"No, it's the Emperor of China."

"Is the Emperor of China around?"

The genuineness of the question struck me dumb.

"Sorry," he said, registering my stare. "I've just arrived, haven't sussed out the situation yet. I'm the Doctor."

He held out his hand amicably. I didn't take it.

"Is that what they call you?" It was an ironic criminal alias if ever I heard one. "Funny kind of doctor."

"You can talk. Watson, isn't it?"

"You've been spying on us – you tell me."

"Oh, I haven't been spying..."

"Listen, just because I won't shoot you doesn't make me harmless. You've already dropped your weapon, you may as well drop the pretence – I saw you in the fight. You haven't even tidied your hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"It gives away that you've emerged from a scuffle, unless something very alarming happened to it and not to you. Or do you keep it that tousled deliberately?"

He hesitated, looking up in thought with eyebrows raised, and was starting to say a very slow and considered "Well" when my patience ran out. I cut him off.

"Just tell me where you've taken him."

"I haven't taken him anywhere. I'm on your side. Promise."

"Prove it."

"If I wanted to abduct you or lead you into a trap, wouldn't I have done it already?"

I ground my jaw. He was right. I had just spent an unspecified amount of time unconscious on the ground, and he had left me there.

"I can help you," he said, starting to approach me. "If you'll let me."

"Why would I do that?" I was desperately trying to assess him, to spot anything that would corroborate his story. If Holmes were there, he would already know every movement made in the last 24 hours from the splashes of mud on the Doctor's shoes or the slight creases in his collar. But I looked and looked, and could not deduce anything.

"Because we both want to know what's going on," he said, "and neither of us wants anyone to die today. And if you're going to save Holmes, you don't have any other leads."

I suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Right again, damn his eyes.

"How are you feeling, by the way? Those tasers are nasty."

"Those what?"

"Tasers." He pointed to the one he had dropped. "Can I?" He waited for me to nod assent before picking it up. "Got you right in the chest. Ouch."

"What are they? What did it fire at me?"

"An electromagnetic pulse. Well, this one has a range of over 15 feet, looks like a Y32 to me, so I'd say it has an air cartridge with a pair of electrodes and a propellant for the compressed nitrogen charges. Still, you're lucky they didn't go for drive stun mode."

I was used to disentangling nonsensical speech - I did live with Sherlock Holmes, after all - but I could make neither head nor tail of anything he had just said. It was deeply unnerving.

"I was coming back to check on you, you know," he continued. "I mean I did put you in the recovery position so I knew you'd probably be fine, but that's what doctors are supposed to do, isn't it? Make sure people are alright."

The opacity of what he was saying was one thing, but it was his affable air, his appearance of being completely at ease, that put me on edge. It didn't seem right somehow, that he should be unmoved by the situation.

"The recovery what?"

"Recovery position. Which is probably why I was too late to see where they went with Monsieur le Holmes, but at least-" he reached into his inside pocket and took out the cigar-shaped object, which was in fact metallic. I tensed, having had enough encounters with poisoned darts for my mind to leap to that conclusion, but he just waved it at me. It made a buzzing noise and the tip lit up blue. He held it up to his eyes and examined it. "Yeah, you're fine."

He replaced it, and flashed a grin. "Come on then!"

I stepped aside as he ducked past me into the alleyway, trying to take a pause for thought. But it was true that he was the only new 'clue' I had; the information I had come with was not enough to guess where Holmes had been taken. I may not have trusted this Doctor, but continuing to hold him at such a suspicious distance would not help me learn what he knew.

"Where are you going?" I called after him.

"To analyse this taser. Might be enough traces on it to locate the others."

"Traces of what?"

"I dunno yet, let's find out." He set off towards the dead-end of the alley.

"Is that your shed?" I asked. He stopped and turned abruptly.

"Shed?" His voice was a mix of incredulity and offense. "I've heard box a lot. Madman in a box. I quite like being a madman in a box. Not sure about madman in a shed."

"What is it then?"

He regarded me for a moment, then the offense was overtaken by a mischievous glee. "Come and see for yourself."


	4. Chapter 4

Immediately outside it he asked, "What's the weirdest thing you've seen in your life?" I contemplated, but before I could answer he said: "This is going to be weirder."

He pushed open the door and stepped inside. I was still wary of a trap, but all and any logical thought scattered onto the wind the moment I saw beyond the door. I took a few steps back, unable to believe what I was seeing. The Doctor was leaping up a ramp into a metal room about the size of our entire flat at Baker Street.

"That's impossible," I whispered.

"Aren't you coming in?"

If this was some kind of ruse, it was certainly the most elaborate I had ever seen. That alone made it worth investigating, to Hell with the danger. I crossed the threshold.

Looking around, the ceiling was high and there was a general sense of light and capaciousness despite the absence of windows.

"It's...it's..." I stuttered.

"Yes?" He encouraged, sparkling with pleasure. "It's...?"

"It's..not got any windows. Why are there no windows? There are on the outside." I darted back out to check, and returned to find him looking somewhat crestfallen.

"Isn't there anything else?" He scratched behind one ear, trying to appear casual. "Anything you want to comment on?"

"Apart from the obvious, no." Walking up the ramp I approached the centre of the room, which was occupied by an octagonal table with a vast glass column in the centre. The surface was scattered with pieces of machinery, though in no discernable form and for no discernable purpose.

The Doctor was still a little dejected, and mumbled, "I thought you might at least be a Smaller on the Outsider."

"If you're referring to the illusion of having torn a hole in the very fabric of space, I'll give you that. But I didn't see much point in mentioning it unless you're willing and able to give me an explanation of how it's done. Can you?"

"Um..."

"Thought not. So what's this analysis you were talking about?"

"Well." He flipped the gun in his hand. "I have a theory that all the other ones of these were made at the same time." He began darting around, applying various small devices to the weapon as though experimenting on it. "So they're covered in stamps, traces of things that will all match up."

"Like a label to make the items from a particular batch identifiable."

"Precisamundo."

"Alright, so if we find the others, we'll know they do all go together. But how will just knowing the label help us to locate them?"

"Science."

I felt my temper failing me again. "Don't mock me, I'm a doctor."

"So am I."

"No you aren't."

"Am too!"

"No you- This is absurd." I turned to go, but stopped and couldn't help smiling. I looked back. "Fancy that. An argument between me and a man, where one of us won't accept that the other is a doctor - only with me doing the accusing. That makes a refreshing change."

"Refreshing change is what I do."

"So I gather. Since you accepted without question that I was a doctor, I suppose it would be unfair of me to demand any kind of proof."

"Demand anything you like."

I inhaled pensively. Establishing who this man really was was too good an opportunity to let pass. "During the war I was struck by a bullet, it hit just here. What damage did it do?"

"About there? Ooh, shattered the bone I'd have thought. Muscle damage fairly minor in comparison. And looks pretty close to your subclavian artery and vein but it can't have hit those or we wouldn't be having this conversation now."

I leant against the railing that skirted the platform. "Very good. I have to concede your knowledge of anatomy is superior to that of my dear Mr Holmes. Not that that's much of a compliment."

"I've had longer to learn than he has. Anyway, shall we go and find him?"

"I was going to go alone."

"But?"

"But having conversed with you, I think you might be useful. Besides, I quite like the idea of having an assistant."

His face fell. I ignored it, and headed for the door. "Come on then."

"Wait."

"What is it?"

He moved towards me. "What would you say I if told you this was a machine that could travel anywhere in time and space?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Alright: this is a machine that can travel anywhere in time and space."

I blinked a few times.

"I'd say your illusions have been most impressive so far, don't push it now or you'll ruin the whole thing."

"If you want proof, I can give you proof." He engaged the machinery around the glass column and the floor shook violently. For the first time that day, I suddenly felt fear.

"What are you doing? What kind of trick is this?"

There was an almighty thud, as though the whole room had been dropped from a height.

"Ahw, this is much better than a trick." He galloped past me to the door, and brandished the taser before pushing it open. "Got a reading!"


	5. Chapter 5

I have seen many strange things in my lifetime. Enough to know they always come at the most unexpected of moments - if they were at all predictable, they would not be strange. And yet, no amount of experience or hardiness could have prepared me for what I saw on that balmy April afternoon.

The huge room in a tiny shed was an illusion that surely could be explained. Crooks know their business and should never be underestimated. But how, how on Earth could this Doctor character have created the appearance of a different street? I had been there myself not five minutes ago.

I stood in the doorway, just as I had on the way in, in utter disbelief. I was looking out into the walled courtyard of a towering brick building, in an entirely different neighbourhood of London. The surrounding blocks plunged us into shadow, and there was a sour tinge to the air. Thick factory smoke streaked the sky.

My breathing started to hitch; I calmed it and fixed the most unreadable expression I could muster onto my face.

"See?" Said the Doctor, standing a few paces ahead of me, one hand thrust in his pocket and the other resting the taser on his shoulder. "Told you it was better than a trick."

"What is it then?"

"TARDIS can travel anywhere in time and space, like I said! Except this isn't anywhere."

I took a furtive step out. The only possible explanation I could think of, and it didn't even explain anything, was that all of this was designed to unsettle me, to throw me off guard. Well, I'd be damned if I let that happen. I was going to find out as much as possible, and not let fear or confusion hinder me. In other words, try to do what Holmes would have done.

"You've picked up traces of those other weapons here," I conjectured.

"Clever, innit?" He frowned at my pistol. "Do you really have to carry that round with you?"

"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?"

"Yes."

"What a shame. Now, have your traces been so kind as to indicate where in the building we should look?"

Before he could reply, however, a cry from above snapped our eyes towards a third-floor window. We both started.

The Doctor took the lead with an excited, "Allons-y?"

I nodded and overtook him. "On-y-va."


	6. Chapter 6

The entrance to the building was unlocked, and led us into a stairwell which I scaled at phenomenal speed, skirt tails swept up in one hand, trusty revolver in the other. Upon reaching the third floor I found a half-open door to what looked like a room. There was an angry, raised voice echoing from within. I paused to make sure the Doctor was behind me, and with an exchanged nod, ventured to push back the door.

It opened onto a balcony, walled on all sides but one, where wooden slats had been erected as a form of railing. Beyond was a much larger space, and we dropped to our hands and knees to approach the edge. There were one or two narrow gaps between the slats, and we positioned ourselves as discreetly as we could to peer through them onto the room below.

Among the industrial debris scattered on the floor stood three men, all of whom I recognised instantly from outside the abattoir, and a woman in a veil facing away from us who was remonstrating them in the strongest terms.

"The race is the day after tomorrow! What is wrong with you people?"

"We did as you instructed, ma'am. We followed your orders to the letter. There's nothing more we could have done."

"I would beg to differ! Do you have any idea whatsoever the kind of threat he now poses?"

"We haven't been speaking English, he cannot possibly have overheard anything."

My brow furrowed in incomprehension. The conversation didn't wait for me.

"He has seen all of your faces, you morons. He could identify any one of you. And if he has even the vaguest notion what we intend to do tomorrow, or if he decides to watch the race and sees us..."

She threw up her hands and I clapped both of mine over my mouth to muffle a gasp of horror. She had only three fingers, twice the normal width, and covered in green scales instead of skin. I looked to the Doctor, who had not reacted in the slightest. Suspicion reared its head again: by rights he should have been as disturbed as I was.

"There's nothing for it," she sighed. "You'll have to kill him."

The Doctor was forgotten again. I knew in my gut they were discussing someone far more important than him.

"But Ma'am, that was never-"

"I am perfectly aware that was never the plan, but we can't afford any more risks. You find Sherlock Holmes, you kill him, and you bring me the body to prove it. Do you understand?"

They nodded assent. I was halfway back down the stairs before realising I had scouted every exit then leapt up to chase them.

I heard my name being called after me, and threw an exasperated "Come along, Doctor!" over my shoulder. Emerging into the courtyard, the sight of his blue shed halted me for long enough for him to catch up.

"Where are you going?"

"We need to get to the other side of the building," I said, not wanting to let on how confused I still was by having apparently vanished in one place and reappeared in another. "Do you know where we are?"

"No idea," he grinned. "Shall we go exploring?"

"If you want to call it that." I could see I was going to have to do everything myself after all.

Crossing the courtyard we came out into a narrow alley that seemed to encircle the building. All around us, windows were dark, doors were closed, and not a soul was to be seen. They had certainly picked a good spot for what Holmes called their 'unsavoury dealings'.

Having followed the wall for what felt like much longer than we should have, the path split, one way leading straight ahead and the other branching off where we needed to go. That was good: it left us at least one possible escape route.

From the balcony, I was fairly certain that we had been looking down onto the ground floor, and that that single high-ceilinged room gave out straight onto the street or into another yard. If there was another way the men could leave, then we had to find it immediately, or we would never intercept them. We had found the relevant side of the building at last but as I ran alongside it, I could find no ways through it. There were gratings at ground level which presumably aired cellars of some kind, and dirty barred windows above head height, and nothing else.

I started cursing. "Where have they gone then?"

I quickened my pace, skidded round the corner, and still saw no evidence of an exit. By the time we had gone full circle and ended up back at the gates into the courtyard, my heart was pounding with adrenaline-fuelled fear. I stood heaving breaths for a few moments, hands resting on my head, looking compulsively left and right as though there was anything to see in either direction.

"There must be another way out," the Doctor panted.

"You don't say." Too tired even to waste my sarcasm on him, I returned through the gates and looked the whole building up and down. From the grates that punctured its base right up to the roof, and back to the grates. The grates.

"Underground," I whispered.

"What's that?"

"Doctor, you must carry tools about your person, if you consider yourself any match for the law. Have you a screwdriver?"

His face lit up. "I was so hoping you'd ask me that."

"Could you open one of those?" I was already moving as I pointed.

Following me he crouched and examined the way the bars were fixed to the bricks around them. "Oh, yeah. Easy-peasy."

As he reached into his pocket I looked away, putting my back to the wall in order to keep all our surroundings in view as he worked. "At least it's safe to surmise that Holmes escaped," I commented. "Thank God."

"He'll be fine. He's not exactly poor and defenceless."

"I was supposed to be his defence." I hissed with frustration, restless fists clenching the butt of my revolver. "We were to meet and go together, so that I would be there if anything happened. Then something did happen, and I wasn't there. Why did he go early, the stupid idiot!"

The Doctor snorted. "That's got to be the first time I've heard anyone describe Sherlock Holmes as a stupid idiot."

"It wouldn't be if you lived with him, believe me." Despite myself, I smiled. It only lasted a second before turning into a frown. "But what on God's Earth had happened to that woman's hand? You acted like you'd seen it before, you can't keep claiming ignorance on-"

I cut myself off when I tossed a glance at him and saw what he was doing. He had one hand cupped to catch the screws as they fell out, and in the other was holding the thing he had so enigmatically waved at me earlier. He was pushing his thumb into one side, and every time he did so, the tip lit up just as it had before and made a queer, quavering sort of noise.

"Is that a magnet?" It would have to be an extremely powerful one to unscrew metal fixtures.

"It does all sorts of things. It's my gadget. Help me lift this, would you?" We heaved the grating off and its clang echoed in the darkness below. The echo was followed by a tense voice.

"Who's there?"


	7. Chapter 7

"Who's asking?" I stuck my head into the hole, but couldn't see anything, so retracted it and slid my whole body through, landing a few feet down on a stone floor. Off to the left and right daylight fell in wide, dusty beams every couple of yards, including the one in which I was standing. The Doctor landed beside me, our shadows large black cut-outs before us.

My eyes were still adjusting when a gun was cocked and several sets of footsteps approached.

"Well blow me, if it isn't Dr Watson."

"Told you we should've killed her when we had the chance."

"Got another chance now though, haven't we?"

"No." The footsteps and accompanying voices halted a few paces in front. I was starting to see the outlines of old looms and presses, taller than the faint shapes of the men. "Not yet. She might be useful."

There were indistinct murmurings of agreement. My gun was in front of me but I didn't know which way to point it. Then:

"Who's your friend, Doctor?"

The two of us inhaled to answer; I began to say "the Doctor", he began to say "Dr Watson", and we both stopped mid-utterance to look at each other. After a beat, I said,

"He's not my friend."

"I'm the Doctor. And who are you with your Y32 tasers?"

There was a gasp from the shadows. "You!"

"Me."

My stiff jaw loosened in incredulity. "So you do know each other! You have met!"

The Doctor's voice took on a serious tone I had not yet heard from him. "Oh, we've met. Took me a while to work out who it was but I got there in the end."

The man in the middle's response was preceded by a chuckle. "Bravo, bravo. And have you worked out what we're going to do yet?"

"I have an idea. Tower Bridge, the river, the boat race? You've planned it all out so carefully, but you must know I can't allow you to continue."

"Ha! Did you hear that, lads? The gentleman can't allow it."

"You thought little enough of playing with people's lives before. I'm not gonna let you do it again."

The men's silhouettes were becoming more distinct, and features of their faces and clothes were even becoming visible, like a pencil sketch gradually building in detail. One of them had a taser, but the other two were wielding perfectly ordinary, perfectly lethal firearms.

"That's where you're wrong, Doctor. We aren't playing any more. As a matter of fact we've got urgent business to attend to."

"Yes,we know," I interrupted. "Killing Sherlock Holmes." I could only imagine what their larger goal might be, whatever it was that the Doctor had seen them doing before, but on this one point I was confident. "And I definitely can't allow that."

The leader - it was clear by now that's what he was - swivelled to aim at me. "I wouldn't stand in our way if I were you, miss."

"Well I wouldn't stand in mine if I were you."

The Doctor stepped forward. "I'm just going to stand in everyone's way until the all guns are put down, alright?"

Though it would have pained me to admit it at the time, I found myself admiring him for that. A brave move and, unlike most brave moves, not in the least stupid.

"Now then, Doctor, none of that rubbish. We all know how big you are on diplomacy. Thing is, there's three of us and two of you."

"I can even out the numbers if you'd like," I offered, now with a clear view of his forehead.

The Doctor gently put his hand on the top of my revolver and pushed it down to point at the floor. "There's no need, Watson."

"No," the leader agreed. "None at all. What matters most now is us finding Mr Holmes, and if we split up in here, there's no way you can stop all of us."

No sooner were the words spoken than they did as threatened, and took off in three different directions. I looked to the Doctor, ready to instruct him to go the opposite way to me, but saw that we both already understood what needed to be done.

I tore down the aisle along the outside wall, from one pool of light to the next, trying to follow the sound of at least one pursuee. The place was a tangle of pistons and wheels and cogs and wood. Even with a gas lamp at every corner it would be a nightmare to find someone, never mind chase them. When the wall ran out I had to choose between following the edge of the basement, or plunging into its heart. I hovered in indecision for a moment, then opted to plunge in.

Slowing down was necessary to avoid collision with my surroundings. Happily it also afforded me a better ability to follow the noise of other movements. Heavy footfall and laboured breathing at 9 o'clock. No, now closer to 10 o'clock. A voice at 11 o'clock but much further off, the words rendered indistinct by multiple echoes. The running and the breathing was now moving straight across towards 2 o'clock - it was about to cross my path.

A second later, the stillness of the wood and metal around me was interrupted by a figure streaking through a gap. I lunged at it. Some protrusion on the floor tripped me and I stumbled. The footfall was still so close I staggered forward and made a wild snatch in the darkness. For a moment, my fist was full of rough fabric, torn away before I could get a good hold. All my vision seemed to be occupied by the shape that lurched off ahead of me.

Whoever it was merged back into the gloom. Fearing what they might do if they escaped, I panicked and fired. It was singularly idiotic. The bullet could have ricocheted off anything, but it found a resting place. I know the cry of a man who has been struck by a bullet. There is always a nuance of shock - even on the battlefield, nobody ever thinks it will happen to them. The thumps of a slow fall, slumping in stages against the structures around him and finally onto the floor, told me it was upper body and not in a vital organ. The moment of heavy silence that ensued was broken by a strangled, "Watson! What have you done?"

My blood congealed. It was the Doctor's voice.


End file.
